


The Cliff

by CoffeeJay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Thinly-Veiled Metaphor For Internalized Homophobia, Angst, Canon Era, Character Study, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Gen, Guilt, He's brooding, M/M, One Shot, Other, Pining, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeJay/pseuds/CoffeeJay
Summary: Crowley sometimes doubts their Arrangement.





	The Cliff

Crowley had no problem tempting angels. That was, he had no moral qualms whatsoever with dangling ripe corruption in front of any given angel should the opportunity arise. His boss approved of the activity. Crowley didn’t mind it, either. Crowley’s problem tempting angels existed in the sense that his temptations had never actually worked on any of them. 

Except the one.

It should have been a right prong in his pitchfork, tempting an angel. It should have been right up there with the M25 on his list of crowning achievements. He had convinced an angel to do bad deeds. Casually. Regularly, even. Consequences be blessed.

Why, if Crowley kept on tempting, he might even get an angel to fall from grace. They lauded that kind of achievement for centuries down in the pit. A touch of respect would do him well. A promotion would be even better, provided that it brushed his more troublesome co-scoundrels off his back and into a pool of boiling sulfur.

It all sounded so wonderful in the abstract.

Yes, if Aziraphale fell from grace, Crowley would likely receive a standing ovation on his way to fling himself headlong into the pool of boiling sulfur before anyone else even got there.

Falling had to rank somewhere below sawing off a limb, but just above Armageddon on a list of pleasant experiences. But Crowley had gotten over it, more or less. It hadn’t been fair that they’d booted him out. None of it had been fair, but Crowley could at least see that he had had it coming. The wrong kinds of questions here, the wrong sorts of people there, and it had all weighed on him until it had sent him sinking out of the sky. Crowley could live with that. He hadn’t liked heaven, anyway.

Aziraphale, though—he  _ oozed _ heaven. He was all about the divine plan. The righteous would prevail, and all that. In fact, Crowley had only been able to tempt him at all because he’d convinced him that bad was actually good—or at the very least not evil—and that he could still traipse around all the rules without actually breaking them. Heaven’s errands were still getting done, albeit by a demon every now and again, and it was frankly commendable that Aziraphale had gotten a demon to do good at all.

That was probably how Aziraphale preferred to think about it. 

Crowley couldn’t fall any further. If they caught him doing good deeds, the results wouldn’t be pleasant, but he would still be a demon. Or he would be dead. Heaven wouldn’t take him back no matter what he did.

Not that he wanted that.

Either way, Crowley had nothing to lose. Aziraphale had far more at stake. Both sides would merrily rip the angel to shreds if they caught him. Heaven would have their word, and then they’d send Aziraphale down wrapped in a flaming bow of divine rebuke so that the demons could take their own pent-up vengeance and rage out on him.

A single misstep would damn Aziraphale. Worse than that, he would believe he deserved it.

That was Aziraphale’s problem. He still trusted heaven. He still believed in them, in their cause. They could do no wrong because of course they couldn’t. If something went pear-shaped, it couldn’t be heaven’s fault, oh no. The plan was solid, but fallible angels still existed. Aziraphale saw Crowley often enough to know that.

Crowley’s problem was that he had believed in heaven too, once. Not anymore—or so he’d believed. Heaven was an alabaster sepulcher filled to the brim with rot. Hell didn’t pretend not to be vile or clumsy, and it had used its vile, clumsy fists to beat every last drop of faith out of Crowley.

And Aziraphale had resurrected it.

Every time Crowley made use of their Arrangement, he couldn’t help but wonder, wonder, wonder whether Aziraphale was right to hesitate, whether Crowley might be crossing some untread threshold of corruption by beckoning Aziraphale so close to the very same steep precipice off of which he had wandered so many centuries ago.

Old books and teacups did not survive long falls.

Crowley wondered what a world without his angel would look like. It was a rancid sort of wonder, one that festered in the speck of doubt within his sliver of undead faith. Crowley was corruption. If he didn’t let Aziraphale alone, he would corrode him to nothing.

In either case, he wouldn’t have to wonder about a world without his angel anymore.

Cutting Aziraphale off would have been the right thing to do, but Crowley was a demon. He was wrong incarnate. As long as Aziraphale cared to peer over the edge at him, he would never stop reaching up.


End file.
